


Echoes

by allofuswithwings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofuswithwings/pseuds/allofuswithwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to piece his life back together, but somehow the puzzle doesn’t quite fit anymore.  The army doctor attempts to make the best of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my take on some post-Reichenbach angst. It’s John POV with other characters mostly as peripheral. The pairing is implied rather than explicit. Spoilers for all of Series 2. Cross-posted to LJ.

~

 

The flat stood empty after John moved out.

 

He knew this because he still went past there when he could, despite the overwhelming pain in his chest every time he went near it.

 

Mrs Hudson had had Sherlock’s belongings moved out after a couple of weeks, John instructing her to send them all to a storage unit he rented.  He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it; even now he couldn’t visit the unit, knowing they were there.

 

*

 

John tried living away from London for a while.

 

Harry told him the best way to deal with loss was to make sure you didn’t lose yourself in it.  Too many reminders clouded your head and made you unable to move on.  Problem was, John knew he didn’t want to move on.  It would mean Sherlock was really gone, and he couldn’t cope with that.  Not yet.

 

He made the arbitrary choice of Oxford, but often found himself on the train revisiting locations of old cases.  He’d head to Devon for a few days and go for walks on the moors, his thoughts always trained on Sherlock and the conversations they’d had there.  He went back to Birmingham only once though, after nearly getting himself kicked to death by a group of youths as he tried to find an old crime scene in a back alley one night.

 

Despite good job prospects, Oxford only lasted two months.  John couldn’t stay away any longer.

 

*

 

John eventually ran into Lestrade again.  It was mostly down to the fact that he knew the pubs the DI used to frequent after work, and happened to be there on several occasions.  He was bound to run into him eventually.  People were creatures of habit.  Sherlock had taught him that.

 

It turned out Lestrade was less than pleased to see him, unsurprisingly.  John and Sherlock had almost ruined his entire career, at least as far as he was concerned.  He wasn’t interested in John’s defence of the detective either.  Though he did concede they were short on qualified assistants for crime scenes these days, and wanted to know if John was looking for work.

 

All the memories of his days with Sherlock – harassing Lestrade for access to a murder, bickering with Anderson, buffering Molly from Sherlock’s callous words – all of these washed over John again.  And he remembered how much he missed it, how the thrill of a case filled the gaping holes in his life, especially with Sherlock by his side.

 

Months too late, John lay in bed and wept for his best friend.

 

*

 

The limp came back in stages.  At first, it was just a twinge as he got up from his chair at the surgery or ascended the steps into the cinema.  Then it became a dull ache when he stood for long periods of time.  Eventually, it returned to its old state of being a constant presence when he walked, and he had to retrieve his stick out of the cupboard in order to get around.

 

John noticed the tremble in his hand while making tea one day in his pokey kitchen.  He stared at it for a while before carrying on.  It wasn’t as if there was anything he could do about it.  There hadn’t been before; there was only one thing that could make it stop.  Only one person.

 

*

 

His therapist mentioned the tremor at his next session.  She had that look on her face again.  The ‘you need to talk to me about Sherlock’ face that John hated.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about him – God knew he felt like confessing everything in a weeping mess sometimes – it was just that he _couldn’t_.  Every time, the words would get stuck in his throat, choke him up, make his head hurt. 

 

Even now, after all this time, he could only speak about his best friend objectively.  About the detective’s work, his personality, his friendships – or lack thereof.  John couldn’t talk about himself in regards to Sherlock.

 

He could hardly begin to understand the thoughts, the feelings he experienced when it came to that man; he had little hope of being able to verbalise them for someone _else_ to comprehend.

 

*

 

The work at crime scenes went some way to alleviate the overactivity of John’s mind.

 

It also supplemented his income from the clinic again, which was a help; he now remembered what a strain it was not to flat-share when living in London.  Though he didn’t have the strength to go through that sort of arrangement again.  Not yet, at least.  Maybe in a few years, when the effort of simply getting out of bed to face another day wasn’t so great.

 

Autopsy work was the same as it had always been.  It was an interesting challenge to deduct exactly what had happened to the victim, and what their life had been before their demise.  In addition, John got to see Molly again, on occasion.  It was nice to be in the company of someone who had revered Sherlock as much as he did, even after everything with the media and Moriarty.

 

There was something oddly unsettling about the way Molly looked at him sometimes, though.  He asked her once, what it was she was thinking when she looked at him like that, but she didn’t answer.  It was grim perhaps, but John liked to think she suffered in the same way he did, and couldn’t admit that he reminded her of Sherlock.

 

*

 

John had never been particularly short-tempered.  He’d stuck to the British institution of ‘grin-and-bear-it’ for most of his life, preferring to avoid confrontation.  He wasn’t sure what had changed now.

 

Perhaps _he_ had.  Perhaps all the grief and loneliness had taken its toll and made him bitter.  He couldn’t tell, and didn’t have anyone to ask.

 

Mostly, he gleaned information from others’ reactions.  Like the way Lestrade had raised his eyebrows at him from across the crime scene, when John had begun berating a dopey coroner’s assistant.  It wasn’t _his_ fault people were oblivious to crucial details that were staring them right in the face.

 

John wasn’t sure Anderson deserved the black eye he gave him at the pub.  The bloke had had a few drinks, so his careless, offensive tongue shouldn’t have been surprising.  But John always felt a hot defensiveness whenever someone else talked about Sherlock, as though they had no right to even speak his name aloud.

 

John’s hand ached for days afterwards, if it was any consolation.

 

*

 

John was in the kitchen when he saw Sherlock’s figure in the doorway.

 

There had been no sound, no movement beforehand.  The doctor stared before squeezing his eyes shut.  He’d lost count how many times he’d imagined that distinctive silhouette in the rooms of the flat over the last year.  This was just another hallucination.

 

When John opened his eyes, it was still there.  Perfectly still, gaze trained on him.

 

Perhaps he’d finally gone mad.  He couldn’t really think of a better way to lose his mind; at least he’d think he had Sherlock back.

 

The figure moved, leaving the doorway to come into the kitchen.  The expression on his face changed to one of faint concern, and John suddenly felt all his breath leave him.

 

John’s knees failed him, his hand going for the back of the chair, and Sherlock was there in one swift movement.  His hands came under John’s armpits before snaking around his back and helping him lean his weight against the wall.

 

“Okay, it’s alright, John.  I’ve got you.”

 

Sherlock’s voice was soft and low, and sliced straight through to hit John inside his chest.  He managed to lift his head and look up at the detective, still struggling to stand.

 

“ _Jesu_ —”

 

He couldn’t even finish the curse before his voice refused to work anymore.  His mouth went dry and he could hear his heart protesting with loud, fast thumping in his ears.

 

Sherlock’s eyes studied him, searching and penetrating, a distinct sensation that John had forgotten over these long, empty months.  He stared back, not wanting to let it go again.

 

Then, just as sudden as the shock, a wave of anger overtook him, and John rose abruptly to grasp Sherlock’s shirt in his hands.  He shook him hard, snarling.

 

“Bastard.  _Bastard_.”

 

He threw him back against the wall, his fist connecting with Sherlock’s jaw.  John staggered back, shaking his hand from the contact, his legs starting to give way again.

 

When he looked up, Sherlock was still against the wall, dazed and one hand to his jaw.  He didn’t look surprised.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” he said quietly.

 

John shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, a bitter smile on his lips.

 

“Sorry?  You’re sorry?!” he snapped.

 

Then he lost his breath again, the adrenaline fading, and he scrambled for something to hold onto as his legs failed.  Sherlock was there again as he slipped down the wall, hands upon his ribs and shoulder.

 

John looked up, slightly delirious and finding himself confronted with those sharp features, dark curls and bright eyes.  He wondered if it was strange to have missed those.

 

He felt himself fall forward as he sank to the floor, his hands curling into Sherlock’s clothes.  His head sank between his knees and he found he was unable to stop shaking.  Before he knew it he was sobbing, silently and tearlessly, his body expelling months’ worth of pent-up emotion.

 

When John looked back on it later, he couldn’t remember thinking anything in particular; he didn’t know if he’d been ashamed of breaking down so completely.

 

Though, he did wonder if he only imagined Sherlock’s fingers carding through the hair on the back of his head as he did so.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I’m aware that I’ve left this open-ended. I have trouble finishing John/Sherlock fics without them spiralling into long, draw-out sagas. So, better to end it here with a note of hope rather than not finish it at all, as I would likely do. I may write a sequel sometime. We’ll see.


End file.
